


live young love

by teatin



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Jughead and Betty first meet as adults, Magical Realism, References to Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13504971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatin/pseuds/teatin
Summary: 20-year-old aspiring novelist Jughead Jones dreams of writing the novel of his life. There’s only one problem: the perfect story has so far eluded him. A disenchanted and hardened person molded by a lifetime of hardship, Jughead finds himself leading an idyllic life in the small town of Riverdale while dealing with a perpetual writing slump on top of it all. Enter Betty Cooper, the new girl in town. A seemingly unremarkable person on the surface, Betty becomes the sole unpredictable but positive force in Jughead’s predictable but disappointing life. Little does he know, Betty is keeping a secret of her own: their days together are numbered, and will come to an end sooner than he might expect. // A "My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday" fusion. AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am with my first multi-chapter fic! As mentioned in the summary, this is an AU loosely inspired by the 2016 Japanese romantic drama, "My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday", with elements taken from the Before Trilogy (Before Sunrise/Sunset/Midnight). Despite this, no prior knowledge of the movie(s) is required to understand this story, as 1) they have little in common aside from the main premise, and 2) everything will be properly explained in due time. Hope you enjoy the first chapter enough to stick around for the rest of the journey!

**_Day 1._ **

_(June 15 th)_

It takes Jughead twenty minutes to finally admit that he’s lost.

And to think it started innocuously enough – Archie picks an afternoon at the Riverdale summer fair as their designated Bonding Activity of the Week, and even though loud and crowded public events have never been Jughead’s cup of tea, the promise of inspiration for a good article convinces him against vetoing the suggestion.

In hindsight, that was probably his first mistake, as ten minutes in, he finds himself in a sea of people bustling about, laughing and chatting excitedly or checking out colorful stalls set up all around the park, with no Archie in sight, and no inspiration in mind.

Fortunately for him, a quick panoramic scan of his surroundings alerts him to the presence of the booth set up by Riverdale’s only used bookstore (of which he is a frequent customer), and like the creature of habit that he is, Jughead immediately makes a beeline for it.

That’s when he sees her, and it’s like everything happening all at once: the world around him slows to a crawl, all the noise and chatter become nothing but muffled white noise, and his whole world is thrown off-balance.

 

 

 

It happens so suddenly, so unexpectedly that it catches him off-guard.

It should be noted, however, that for reasons he prefers not to go into detail just yet, Jughead Jones is someone who has had so much practice priming himself to expect the unexpected that he’s pretty much elevated it to an art form, if he does say so himself.

So for him to be blindsided like this is immensely frustrating, but it also brings a sensation completely foreign to his usual assortment of emotions, and for that, it also equally fascinates him.

 

 

 

Jughead hates clichés, abhors them with every fiber of his being, and yet he can’t deny that the moment he sees her, he feels a strange, tingling feeling that he can’t quite put a name to. A feeling too close to what the romantics like to dub, ‘love at first sight’, and it perturbs him. A part of him wants to smack himself over the head, the same part that has, on more than one occasion, watched Archie come home practically walking on air, dreamy-eyed and sighing, _‘I think she’s the one, Jug.’_ after only the third date.

But no matter how much he internally struggles with it, the feeling is there, blooming in his chest and stirring butterflies in his stomach, and it doesn’t seem to have any intention of going away anytime soon. On the contrary, it seems to have made itself at home there, resting somewhere next to his wildly thumping heart.

Fingers trembling slightly (to his great annoyance), Jughead randomly picks up a well-worn paperback within arm’s reach and does what he hopes to be a half-decent attempt at being inconspicuous as he steals another glance at the girl.

At first glance, she looks like any other girl her age, with a simple pink tank top and light calf-length jeans, white sneakers and matching pink backpack strung over her shoulder with blue flowers poking out of them (hydrangeas, his brain helpfully supplies), in short, nothing out of the ordinary. She seems to be deeply engrossed in the book, biting her lower lip slightly in concentration, blonde hair slightly falling over her shoulders and partially obscuring her face from view, but even from this vantage point, he’s struck by her beauty, a subdued kind of charm, but no less real.

He can tell she’s not from around here, or at least new to town, and it’s not just because Riverdale is a small town where everybody knows everybody else. There’s an inexplicably foreign aura to her, one that sets her apart from other Riverdale inhabitants. Again, Jughead can’t find a rational reason why he feels this way, or why he even cares so much. All he knows is that the girl in front of him is a giant puzzle wrapped inside a mystery, and he wants so badly to know.

“You know, you could start by saying hi,” a voice interrupts his train of thought, and he realizes too late that he hasn’t been as inconspicuous as he hoped. “you could burn a hole in this book with that stare. I don’t bite, you know.”

He mentally curses himself for giving off the first impression of being a creepy stalker, then gets mad at himself that he was staring in the first place, then feels befuddled that he even cares what a stranger thinks about him, or that he cared enough to do any of the aforementioned things to begin with.

He’s ticking off at least six items on the list of things he never thought he would do if someone were to hold a gun to his head.

“Um, sorry,” he stammers, brain racing to come up with a decent excuse that won’t raise her suspicion that he’s a serial killer preying on his latest victim, and have her run for the hills, or worse, Sheriff Keller. “I was just… reading the blurb on the back cover of your book. I caught a few words and just couldn’t stop.”

 _Stupid_ , he thinks. _That’s so detailed that it’s obviously a lie._

The corners of her mouth quirk into a smile as she finally lowers her book and meets his gaze, giving him a full view of her face, and by God, she’s absolutely _radiant._

(He mentally ticks off another item on his list.)

“That’s funny, if you’re so interested in this book, one would think you’d have an easier time putting the copy you’re holding to good use,” she says, indicating the book he picked up earlier without looking as a cover to observe her.

He finally reads the title on the cover. _And Then There Were None._ The same book she’s holding in her hands.

Busted. What are the chances, right?

Grinning sheepishly, he puts the book down. When he looks at her again, he’s surprised to find she looks amused rather than creeped out like he was expecting.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I swear I’m not usually like this,” he stops himself before he spirals into an endless ramble. “It’s just… I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“I just moved here a few days ago,” she replies. “Spent the whole time unpacking, so today is my first taste of Riverdale, so to speak.”

“Welcome to the town with pep,” he quips. “we have excellent maple syrup.”

She laughs heartily.

“I’ll be sure to check that out sometime. But that’ll probably have to wait. I haven’t even seen the town yet. Do you happen to have any recommendations? Iconic landmarks I should see?”

He thinks for a few seconds. “Truth be told, we don’t really have many exciting places here in fair Riverdale, but there are several that comes to mind. Sweetwater River, which I’m sure you’ve seen since it flows through the town border, but that’s nothing compared to seeing it up close-”

As he rambles on though, Jughead catches her glancing at her watch furtively, brows furrowed.

“Do you have someplace to be?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she tells him, and he notices her expression has shifted from amused to downright despondent within a matter of seconds. “I need to go now. It was nice talking to you. Thanks for the recommendation, I’ll keep it in mind.”

And with that, she turns to leave.

Panic suddenly tugs at him, a nagging sensation that _he has to stop her, he has to know more, this can’t be the end_ , and he calls out to her before he can stop himself. “Wait.”

She stops, but doesn’t turn around.

“I… I still don’t know your name,” he speaks up, voice hesitant.

She turns to face him, and he’s alarmed to see her eyes misty with unshed tears. “My name’s Betty. Betty Cooper.”

“I’m Jughead. Jones. The third,” he adds, and immediately feels stupid for the unnecessary detail, so he quickly changes the subject. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but… are you okay? I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but you seemed fine a minute ago…”

“I’m okay, really,” she tells him, but her voice is still a bit shaky, “It’s just… personal stuff. But it’s okay, it’ll get better.”

He’s not convinced, but he deems it not his place to press the issue further. “Alright, if you’re sure,” he tells her. “But… I’ll be seeing you around, right? We’ll see each other again?”

Betty laughs, but it comes out more like a choked sob. “Of course, silly. It’s a small town after all. We’ll see each other again.”

With that, she departs, and soon he loses sight of her among the bustling crowd at the fair.

 

 

 

**_Day 2.  
_ **

_(June 16 th)_

“I saw you talking to a girl at the fair,” Archie materializes in Jughead’s line of vision as he’s meticulously putting his books inside neatly labeled cardboard boxes, sounding entirely too smug for his liking. It doesn’t take an idiot to infer the meaning of what he’s not saying, and Jughead fights back the urge to fling a thesaurus at his head.

“So? People talk to each other. Someone call the NSF, we just discovered a scientific breakthrough in human behavior,” Jughead shoots back. The conversation hasn’t even started, and he’s already fed up with the subject.

“No, no, this is different,” Archie insists, putting on his best detective face. “You cracked more than one smile within a two-minute conversation. That’s big.”

“Archie,” Jughead finally stops sorting through his books and looks the redhead dead in the eye. “You’re my brother, and I get that we used to do everything together, but please let me have a personal life. To myself.”

Archie visibly deflates. “You know I wasn’t trying to meddle, Jug,” he says, voice serious now. “I worry about you, that’s all. You know I just want you to be happy.”

Jughead sighs, suddenly feeling bad. It’s true. Archie has always had his best interest at heart, even if he sometimes goes about showing it in rather questionable ways. Jughead would never admit it to his face, but he’s thankful to have someone like Archie sticking by his side and looking out for him. He also knows that the Bonding Activity of the Week tradition was borne out of Archie’s concern that if he doesn’t drag Jughead out of his house screaming and kicking at least once a week, he’d slowly become a social pariah, a creature of urban legend that parents tell their kids to scare them into behaving.

Well, maybe that’s taking it a bit too far, but the point remains.

“I know,” he says, then gives up with a groan. “Fine, I met a girl.”

“Ooh,” Archie perks up again, and Jughead wonders if his previous display of sentimentality was all but a ploy to get him to mellow out and open up. “How did it go? Did you get her number?”

Jughead elbows him in the rib, but Archie expertly avoids it. “I’m not like you, I don’t go asking for girls’ numbers two minutes after meeting them.”

“You snooze, you lose, Jug,” he states matter-of-factly, popping a potato chip into his mouth.

Much as Jughead hates to admit it, a part of him wishes he had managed to get Betty’s number. Not that he would necessarily gather up the courage to call her anytime soon, but it would feel like he has something, some tangible connection to her to hold on to. The way things stand right now, he doesn’t know _when_ he’ll see her again, and the uncertainty of it all bothers him.

As if sensing his dismay, Archie quickly amends, “But I’m sure you’ll run into her soon. It’s a small town, after all. I mean, I run into Cheryl almost every day, and I don’t even want to. But it’s like, the more I wish to avoid her, the more I see of her. She’s terrifying. I feel like I’m back in high school all over again whenever I come so much as within a six feet radius of her.”

Jughead smiles despite himself. Archie’s simple outlook and happy chatter – even about simple, irrelevant things – never fail to brighten his day and ground him when he’s feeling particularly unmoored. Not for the first time, he’s grateful to be in a world where Archie Andrews exists.

 

 

 

Even if nothing comes out of it, even if he only runs into her again weeks later when she’s all but forgotten their brief encounter at the fair altogether, Jughead has to admit the time he spent at the fair had not been entirely fruitless. For one, his article is coming along nicely.

He’s sitting comfortably in a booth at Pop’s – laptop open, notes out, coffee ready – and progressively getting weirdly invested in analyzing the popularity of the high striker among members of the Riverdale High Bulldogs when someone’s voice makes him jump.

“Oh, that’s the article in the Riverdale Register!”

He gives the intruder one of his trademark quick glances over the shoulder that translates to, _‘can’t a man be allowed some privacy around here?’_ when something catches his eye and he quickly does a double take, nearly jumping to his feet when he recognizes the familiar face beaming at him.

Standing behind him is none other than Betty Cooper, the girl he met at the fair the day before.

“Jughead Jones the third,” she says by way of greeting, a hint of playfulness in her voice, and much to his horror, Jughead can already feel a blush creeping up his neck as he recalls his rather embarrassing introduction to her a little less than 24 hours earlier.

“Jughead is fine,” he tells her, still feeling a bit flustered. “Betty, right? What are you doing here?”

It’s a stupid question and he knows it, but it was the only conversation starter that came to mind at the moment. It’s funny, he thinks, how much he’s wanted to see her again, how worried he’s been that they won’t, and now that she’s standing in front of him, he feels more unprepared than ever. Like a slacking schoolboy that’s been given a pop quiz, even.

“I was looking for you, actually,” she says, slipping into the other side of the booth. “You said you were gonna be here.”

“I did?” he echoes, puzzled. Come to think of it, what was she saying just now about the article and the Register?

He’s about to ask her when she suddenly perks up, as if remembering something.

“You know, I still haven’t gotten to see Sweetwater River up close and personal,” she tells him. “How about you be my tour guide for the day? After all, you were the one that told me about it, so it’s only fitting that you get to do the honors.”

It takes him a moment to register her words. “Um, yeah,” he finally manages. “Sure. Why not? When’s good for you?”

“Right now.” she replies immediately, without skipping a beat.

“Now?”

“No time like the present,” she says in a sing-song voice, then gets up to leave.

Jughead sits there stunned for a second before scrambling to gather up his belongings sprawled all over the table and runs after her.

He can’t hold back a furtive smile as he follows her outside. He’s reluctant to admit it, but a part of him likes that Betty seems like such an unpredictable force of boundless energy. This is only the second time they’ve talked, but Jughead can already tell that he may never really be able to guess her next move, or predict what she’s going to say, or easily read her the way he enjoys doing with other people.

Something tells him life is about to get a whole lot more interesting with her around.

 

 

 

After much searching and deciding that rocks make for less than ideal sitting surface, they manage to find and settle down on a reasonably grassy part of the riverbank, right in front of some flower bushes which have only just started to bloom.

“Hydrangeas,” Jughead remarks, not realizing he’s done it out loud. He thinks back to the flowers tucked inside her backpack and suspects there’s a pattern waiting to be formed, but dismisses the thought as silly. After all, it _is_ June, the big flower season. It wouldn’t be entirely beyond the realm of possibility to run into the same kind of flowers multiple times throughout the summer.

“My favorite,” she sighs, lightly touching her fingertips to a partially-unfurled bud. “Look, these haven’t bloomed yet. They’re still white. When they bloom, they could be pink, or blue, or lilac, or any color in-between. I think that’s really cool.”

“Well, if you want to get really technical, their colors are determined by the pH level in the soil. A lower pH level yields blue flowers, while a higher pH level gives us pink flowers,” Jughead rambles before he can stop himself, and upon realizing that he’s probably just come off like an insufferable know-it-all, tries to cover his mistake by steering the conversation in a more lighthearted direction. He does his best dramatic voice. “It’s a metaphor for our circumstances shaping the person that we become. If we grow up in a stable, loving home, we grow up to be well-adjusted adults. Otherwise we grow up to be misfits and social pariahs, doomed to an existence that serves no purpose other than to make other more fortunate folks sigh in relief and say, _boy am I glad that’s not me_ whenever they see us.”

 Betty gives him an odd look, but it’s not malicious or judgmental. “Wow, you’re certainly a glass half empty person, aren’t you?”

Jughead shrugs. A part of him knows that this isn’t an appropriate second conversation to have with someone he just met, that he might scare her off or offend her. And it’s not like he’s the type of person to run around telling random people cynical interpretations of human nature using flower analogies, anyway. But with Betty… he can’t stop. He feels like he couldn’t be guarded around her if he tried. There’s just something about her presence that’s calming and comforting, something about the way she looks at him, the way she listens that’s so open, understanding and without judgment. He thinks he could spend an entire day just sitting next to her in silence, basking in the comfort of her presence, if he could.

Betty, for her part, seems to mull over his words some more before she speaks up again, voice resolute. “No offense, Jughead Jones, but I think you’re wrong.”

“Oh?” he’s definitely curious now. “How so?”

“That’s not the only way to look at it. I like to think of it more as we start out as blank canvases, but we grow into different people, and we’re all beautiful in different ways.”

For the first time in his life, Jughead’s first response isn’t to draft a snarky reply, or to twist it into something cynical. Instead, he finds himself seriously contemplating her words, and is surprised to find that she has a point. It’s not that he thinks he’s wrong, mind you. His and Betty’s interpretations are both valid. A person can choose to live life with a positive outlook, or a negative one. If he’s given a choice, why does he choose to be cynical all the time?

(Deep down, he knows why. It’s coming home to a trailer reeking of alcohol, stinking with the smell of unwashed laundry, an empty bottle or two rolling along the floor. It’s his mother’s tired eyes as she regards him with an almost resentful look. It’s his sister, waking him up in the middle of the night with tears in her eyes, asking him why neither of their parents is home. It’s the sinking despair that settles deep inside his gut everytime he looks at the ironically cheerful-looking sign that reads _Sunnyside_.)

Betty gives him a look that’s half surprised, half amused. “You know, you’re pretty well-versed in flowers for a guy,” she teases.

“Hydrangeas aren’t _that_ uncommon,” he explains. “Besides, you’d be surprised to find what kind of strange, specific research one often ends up doing as a writer.”

“Oh, right, you’re a writer,” Betty edges closer to him, suddenly interested. “I saw you typing up that article in the diner. I hope I didn’t intrude on your writing time by dragging you out here. My parents are writers too, and I dabble in it a bit myself, so I know how frustrating it is to have your writing flow cut short like that.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jughead reassures her, and he means it. “Truth be told, I’ve been in sort of a… chronic writing slump for a while. I’m trying to write a book, but the words just won’t come. The articles are just a side project I’m doing for my summer job at the Register, since they’re shorter and require less commitment. I keep thinking that if I write enough, get into a writing headspace, sooner or later the inspiration will come knocking at my door.”

They stay silent for a while before Betty speaks up again, but this time her voice is softer, almost sympathetic. “I’m guessing that hasn’t worked out?”

Jughead refrains from heaving an audible sigh. “No, unfortunately not.”

“Well, if this helps, I believe in you, Jughead,” she says, and his heart skips a beat at the sound of his name coming from her lips.

Strangely enough, had this been anyone else, he would have scoffed and dismissed them as empty words people say to make each other feel better without meaning it. One would think he has all the more reason to doubt Betty’s goodwill, since they’ve known each other for all of one day, but Betty said it so earnestly and with such conviction that he believes her.

He truly, genuinely does.

 

 

 

They spend the next few minutes in companionable silence, Betty switching from sitting cross-legged to stretching her legs in front of her. He notices her gazing at the rushing water contemplatively before edging closer to the river’s edge.

Sudden panic rises in his chest as his heart thumps loudly against his ribcage, Jughead instinctively reaches out and grabs Betty’s forearm. “What are you doing?”

Betty gives him a questioning look but otherwise doesn’t look fazed. “What, are there piranhas in the water or something?”

It takes him a few seconds before he realizes what he’s done and releases her with an awkward, apologetic grin. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… I don’t know what came over me.”

 She waves him off. “It’s okay, but now you’ve got me a little concerned. There isn’t anything in the water that I should be mindful of, is there?”

Relieved that she’s not offended, he shoots for something more lighthearted. “Oh, nothing major. There’s the occasional monster sighting here and there, rituals performed by the witch covens of Greendale every now and then, and the water turns into maple syrup every full moon. Nothing they don’t tell you in a tourist booklet.”

Betty gives him a _look_ , and Jughead can’t help but chuckle a bit. “I’m just messing with you, of course. It’s the teens’ choice destination for a clandestine late-night rendezvous, and there’s the annual boat race at the beginning of summer, but other than that, nothing out of the ordinary ever happens here.”

“Then I suppose it’s perfectly safe for me to do this,” Betty concludes and dips her feet into the water, heaving a relaxed sigh. Jughead edges closer to her, eyeing the water uneasily.

“You’re not joining me? What’s the point in experiencing the river up close and personal if you’re just going to look at it?”

Jughead smiles grimly. “I’m good, thanks. Sweetwater River and I have been acquainted before, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

“Oh,” Betty says as realization dawns on her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you-“

“You couldn’t have known,” he shrugs. “It was a long time ago. I was five, I think, but my parents were so busy with their own stuff that most days they just left me to my own devices. I was curious and liked to fool around, something was bound to go wrong sooner or later.”

Betty doesn’t say anything, so he takes it as cue to continue. “I don’t remember how I got out of the river, but I remember them saying it was a woman who pulled me out. She disappeared in the resulting commotion when people started gathering at the river, and no one caught her face or her name, but they think she wasn’t someone from town.”

They stay silent for a moment before Jughead laughs awkwardly. “I’m sorry, too much information. I’m betting you didn’t want to know that.”

“No, it’s fine, really,” she reassures him, voice soft. “I think sometimes sharing with a stranger helps. And to make you feel less awkward, I’m going to tell you a story of my own too, if you’re interested.”

He gestures for her to keep talking, and she contemplates for a bit. “Let’s see… I got myself into quite a sticky situation when I was five, too. I was at a fair, much like the one we were at yesterday, and I wandered off. When I turned around, I couldn’t find my parents.”

“And then… something happened. I think they had fireworks prepared for that night, but something went wrong and the entire tent went up in flames. It was chaos. I can’t remember much, but I remember being terrified. People were running around panicked, no one noticed me, and I still couldn’t find my parents.”

At this, she smiles a little, just the barest quirk upwards of her lips. “And then, a man grabbed me and carried me a safe distance away from the fire. He left me at the ticket booth, where my parents eventually found me. If it weren’t for him, I probably would have been stomped on a thousand times in that stampede.”

Jughead fixates his gaze on a rock nearby as he mulls over what Betty just told him. He’s about to say something when, as if reading his mind, she speaks again. “I know it’s silly, but for the longest time, I’d avoid crowded places. Anywhere with lots of people, really, but carnivals and fairs especially. I’d hear the cheery music, and I’d see myself, standing there lost, before all hell broke loose. So I understand, I do. I get why you reacted the way you did, at me trying to go for a swim.”

“I, ah,” he hesitates, not knowing if he should broach the subject, but figures if she’s willing to share this much with him, maybe trying won’t hurt. “How did you… I don’t want to say ‘get over’, but how did you overcome it?”

“I had help,” she says simply, and he notices the same contemplative look she had when she was recounting the story of her rescue. “Someone who believed in me, believed I was stronger than my fears. Sometimes, that’s all you need, Jughead. Someone who believes in you.”

Finishing her story, she perks up again. “See? Now you know a deeply personal story of a childhood misadventure that I had. We’re even now.”

Even though it’s clear she’s trying to play it off as if it was nothing, Jughead knows better. He reaches out and places his hand on top of hers, all shyness forgotten. “I’m glad you decided to share it with me,” he said.

She looks at him, her expression unreadable. “Me too,” she tells him.

And then, as quickly as it came, the moment is broken by the sound of her cellphone pinging. Startled, they jump apart, and Jughead realizes he hasn’t noticed how close they’ve gotten before that moment.

Betty checks her phone with a mumbled apology, then gets up. “I need to go,” she declares. “I have some errands to run if I want to make it home by midnight.”

This time, Jughead is not entirely surprised to find himself disappointed.

“Thank you, I had a great time,” she continues, putting on her shoes and gathering her bag, which lay a distance away from them, near the bushes. “I’ll see you around?”

“Wait,” Jughead stops her. “Can I have your number? That way we can contact each other, instead of waiting for fate to reunite us, which, who knows when that’ll happen.”

“Sure,” Betty agrees and starts rummaging in her bag, pulling out a pocket journal with a mint green cover. She scribbles down her number and hands it to him. “Use it.”

And with that, she takes off before he can say another word.

Jughead stares after her retreating form until she rounds a corner and disappears between the buildings. Slowly, he smiles, clutching the piece of paper close to him.

Something tangible to hold on to, at last.

 

 

 

That night, he’s finishing up his article when he contemplates calling her, then balks at the idea (Is it too soon to call her? Would he seem too eager?), then decides to call her again before chickening out at the last minute. The cycle repeats several times before a voice startles him.

“Dude, just do it.”

“Jesus, Archie,” Jughead inhales sharply, clutching his chest. “Don’t go sneaking up on people like that.”

“I wasn’t sneaking up on anyone,” Archie deadpans. “I announced my presence very loudly and clearly, but it’s obvious your mind was already preoccupied with something else.”

He leans over Jughead’s shoulder, and Jughead holds the piece of paper away from him. “Is that her number? Damn, Jug. You not only took my advice, you acted quick. It hasn’t even been a day yet. How did you find her?”

“None of your business, Arch,” Jughead replies, irritated. “Go back to your songs.”

“You really should call her,” Archie says, ignoring him.

“I’ll call her some other time,” Jughead deflects, hoping Archie would drop the subject. “We just saw each other today, I think she’s had enough of me for one day.”

Archie tuts and makes a show to look disappointed. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Jughead. If you get her number and don’t even bother to call her, what will she think? What kind of man do you think she will take you for?”

“The kind smart enough not to take dating advice from Archie Andrews,” he replies wryly. To his credit, Archie refuses to rise to the bait.

“You know I’m right.”

Jughead heaves a long-suffering sigh. He can’t believe he’s having a conversation about his own love life with Archie of all people. He can’t believe he’s having a conversation about his love life, period. “Look, even if I did call her, I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Just say…” Archie trails off. Then, frustrated, he snatches Jughead’s phone away from him and presses the dial button.

“Archie!” Jughead yells, but by the time he manages to get his phone back, it’s already ringing. “What the hell?”

“You would have never done it if I’d left you to it,” Archie states simply before slinging his guitar case over his shoulder and retreating into the kitchen, no doubt in search of the leftover pizza Jughead has been saving for himself, the freeloader.

Betty picks up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Betty, it’s Jughead,” he starts, doing his best not to stammer and praying to God his voice doesn’t sound shaky.

“Hi, Jughead,” she greets him, voice cheerful. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“I just called to say thank you, I had a great time today,” he continues, his confidence suddenly burgeoning at the comforting sound of her voice.

“I did too, though I should be thanking you,” she says. “Sweetwater River was your idea, after all. And speaking of, when do I get to visit your next great idea?”

“Tomorrow,” he blurts out, before amending, “I mean, if you’re free, that is. There’s this place, my favorite place in the whole town. Doesn’t come with a tragic childhood backstory this time, I promise,” he adds before mentally kicking himself. Why is it that he can never say the right things around her?

Fortunately, he feels slightly less stupid when he hears the sound of her laughing softly over the phone. “Tomorrow sounds great. I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me.”

“Meet you at Pop’s at 10?”

“It’s a date,” she says, before quickly correcting herself. “I mean, I’ll see you there.”

Even long after they’ve hung up, Jughead’s heart still beats so fast it quite practically threatens to jump out of his chest.

Putting his phone back down on the desk, he turns his attention to his newly-complete article as her voice rings in his head.

_I believe in you, Jughead._

He attaches the article to an email, types in Richard Mantle’s email address, and clicks send.

Afterwards, he reclines in his chair and gazes at the ceiling.

For the first time in a very long time, Jughead is excited for a new day.

_tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More characters will start making their appearances as the story goes on!
> 
> If you enjoyed the first chapter, please let me know! You'd have my eternal love and gratitude, as I appreciate every comment I get, no matter how short. Stay tuned for more!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your feedback on the first chapter! There is no better motivation than your continued support for this little story.
> 
> On with chapter two: in which Betty and Jughead continue to bond by talking some more, go on a date without realizing they're on a date, and finally get to first base.

**_Day 3._ **

_(June 17 th)_

When Jughead arrives at Pop’s Chock-lit Shoppe the next morning, he finds Betty already there, sitting at the counter and appearing to be engaged in a deep conversation with Pop Tate over a glass of strawberry milkshake. He pushes the door open, the jingling of the bell alerting them to his presence, and sees Pop still laughing at something Betty said even as he turns his attention to the door.

“Ah, there he is,” Pop greets him cheerily. “You’ve kept the lady waiting, Jughead.”

Betty waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, no, actually I was early. I figured the diner must be quite deserted this time of day, and I have some time to kill, so I came to keep you company. I hope you didn’t mind.”

Pop laughs heartily and shoots Jughead a look he can’t quite decipher. “Your friend here is such a darling,” then, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, “She’s a keeper, Jughead.”

“Pop, please,” Jughead manages to squeak out after a moment of stunned silence, and is disgruntled to find he doesn’t sound at all dignified, but more like a schoolboy whose secret crush has just been revealed. “It’s not like that-”

His protests are promptly ignored, because Pop simply chuckles to himself and disappears behind the back door leading to the kitchen. As if on cue, a waitress, who’s been mopping up the floor on the other side of the diner, pauses and pushes the mop wringer into the bathroom, leaving the whole place empty save for the two of them. At the counter, Betty momentarily turns her attention away from the milkshake in front of her to whip out a mint green journal and starts flipping through the pages.

Jughead is shifting his weight from one leg to the other while contemplating the convenient timing of it all when Betty pats the stool next to her, gesturing for him to sit. He complies, and she slides a plate over to him.

“I ordered this for you,” she tells him, playing with the straw in her milkshake glass. “Your favorite. Consider it my apology for pulling you out of your writing project yesterday. Also, I figured if you’re going to continue being my tour guide, it’d be better to do it on a full stomach.”

Jughead stares at the double cheeseburger and coffee in front of him. “How did you know this was my favorite?”

At this, Betty stops sipping her milkshake, and it takes her a moment to answer. “Lucky guess. I mean, who doesn’t love cheeseburgers, right?”

If he’s honest with himself, he isn’t entirely convinced by that explanation, but he doesn’t press it any further. There’s food on the table, and Jughead is not about to say no to it. So he takes a sip of the coffee. Black, with just the right amount of sugar. Just the way he likes it. 

They sit there in companionable silence for the next few minutes,  Jughead munching on his food and Betty sipping her milkshake while perusing the journal.

“So, what did you have in mind for today?” she asks. “You said this is your favorite place in Riverdale, so I’m guessing it must be special.”

Swallowing, the over-thinker in him momentarily worries that perhaps he may have hyped it up a bit _too_ much, and frets that it’ll be a let-down to her, but he quickly pulls himself together. “You’ll see.”

“Playing it coy, aren’t we?” she teases. “Do I at least get a hint?”

“Nope. That’d spoil the surprise.”

“Well then, I hope it’s worth the wait,” she says.

By God, he hopes it is.

 

 

 

“Ah, I should have guessed,” she whispers as they enter the cramped bookstore, taking care not to knock into tall stacks of books positioned precariously in almost every corner. “Every writer’s haven, no doubt.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he tells her. “I’ll admit, this place is up there, but it’s not quite my favorite spot in town.”

“Then what are we doing here?” she asks, her brows furrowed in puzzlement.

“It’s not time for the surprise yet,” he explains. “So we’ll pass the time here. Consider it the appetizer before the main course. You’re getting two for the price of one.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Betty quickly clarifies. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that you’re taking the time to show me all these places. Just wondering, is all.”

“I know,” he gives her an easy smile before something on one of the shelves catches his eye. “Oh, look what we have here. This takes me back.”

Betty follows his gaze, and finds that in the midst of their wandering, they’ve come upon a row full of Agatha Christie novels. She pulls out an old, dusty cover of _And Then There Were None_ and eyes Jughead suspiciously. “Did you plan this?”

“Much as I like to take credit for it, no,” he laughs. “I guess I just didn’t realize I was heading toward the Agatha Christie section out of habit.”

“Right,” she says, “I’ll take comfort in the knowledge that you probably picked up an Agatha Christie novel at the fair because you were actually a fan and not just because you were using it as an excuse to spy on me.”

“I really am a fan, I swear,” he holds up his hands defensively, and she laughs.

“Relax, I was just messing with you,” she playfully nudges his shoulder with her own as she flips through the pages. “I take it you like a good murder mystery, then?”

“I do, yeah,” he admits. “Though you’d be surprised how many times that has earned me a top spot in Sheriff Keller’s suspect list whenever something is found vandalized or stolen.”

“How come?”

“Anti-social kid raised on the wrong side of the tracks, with a penchant for murder mysteries,” he recites, doing his best impression of Sheriff Keller’s voice. “To him, I’m practically a walking ticking time bomb.”

He half expects her to turn tail and run at the blunt admission, or worse, pity him, but instead, she retorts with a quip.

“Well, I hope the story you’re working on isn’t also a murder mystery, because that’d do little to brighten up your resume.”

He laughs. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed, or even smiled, this much. It’s crazy to think that he’s only known her for a couple days and yet he’s never felt so relaxed and at ease as he does right now. She understands his rather unique brand of humor and is able to respond in kind, and her wit keeps him on his toes. She radiates a kind of happiness that is simply irresistible. She’s… something else.

“Sorry to disappoint, but no,” Jughead says. “I mostly draw inspiration from my surroundings, and sadly nothing out of the ordinary ever happens in Riverdale. Maybe that’s why I’ve been having such a bad case of writer’s block.”

“Well, stories don’t have to be dark and grim to be good,” she argues. “There’s beauty in ordinary stories of everyday life, too. After all, we’re living them, aren’t we? If we find them worth living, they’re stories worth telling.”

He begrudgingly admits that she makes an astoundingly simple yet good point.

“So really, Jughead,” she continues. “It’s not about the content of the story, so what is it? What is it that’s preventing you from writing? Who knows, maybe I could give you some ideas to shake you out of your slump.”

“Not knowing how it ends, I suppose,” he confesses. “A good writer should always know how a story ends, he can’t just make things up as he goes along. Improvisation has no place in good writing.”

She seems to mull over this for a moment.

“I guess that’s a fair point,” she concedes. “but sometimes, doesn’t the story just take on a life of its own, somewhere along the way?”

“I don’t like to be surprised,” he says, and it comes out more defensive than he intended. “I like to be prepared, that’s all.”

It’s true, Jughead has never been a fan of surprises, as surprises have tended to not work out in his favor. For other children, “surprises” can mean a lot of things. The comforting smell of their mothers cooking their favorite dinner wafting from the kitchen as they come home after school. The delight at a small souvenir that their fathers bring home after a long business trip. Heck, it could be something as simple and mundane as their parents agreeing to order in pizza every now and then. For Jughead, it’s missed birthdays, forgotten family traditions, broken promises, and repeat offenses. After years of disappointment upon disappointment, he’s trained himself to expect the unexpected so surprises won’t faze him anymore, but it doesn’t make him any more of a fan.

“Sorry,” he says finally. She’s still looking at him with an almost sympathetic look on her face.

“I have a feeling we’re no longer talking about stories here,” she begins hesitantly. “I get something’s on your mind. Do you maybe want to talk about it? I can’t promise I can help, but maybe sharing it could make you feel better.”

To his surprise, he does. He tells her all about the faith that grows smaller and smaller with every disappointment, like a twisted game of diminishing returns. He tells her about the burden of trying to shield his sister from the worst of it, the weight of having to pretend that everything will be alright for her sake even if he doesn’t believe it. The weight of living a lie.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes as he concludes the story. “I promised no childhood sob stories, and here we are. I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

“Hey now, don’t start beating yourself up,” she quickly reassures him. “I’ve said it before, but I’m glad you told me. I feel like it helps me understand you better, and I want to, Jughead. I want to get to know you better.”

“But, back to stories,” she continues, switching the subject. “I don’t think it’s an entirely bad thing to not know the ending. What if it ends badly and you wind up spending all your time prepping yourself for that inevitable bad ending and neglect to enjoy the right now? If it’s meant to have an unhappy ending, it will end that way whether you have the power of foresight or not. Sure, when the bad thing happens, you’ll be caught unprepared, but you’ll be able to enjoy the happy moments in-between. And believe me, just because it ends badly doesn’t mean the happiness you experienced was a lie. If I had to choose, I’d choose to go in blind. Let whatever comes, come.”

“You always have to disagree with me on everything, don’t you,” he asks her with a wry smile.

“If you insist on being fatalistic about everything, yes,” she retorts playfully, then turns a corner onto another aisle without waiting for him to respond.

“Hey, wait up!” he calls after her and scrambles to catch up. When he finally does, he finds himself standing in front of a shelf full of Toni Morrison novels.

“You’re a fan?” he asks, gesturing toward the books. She nods.

“My literary hero,” Betty explains as she traces a finger along the titles almost reverently. “I mean, I don’t presume to understand the struggles that her characters face, of course, but maybe that’s why they draw me in so much. They remind me that there’s a world out there, a world beyond the safety and comfort of my own home, a world that isn’t wholesome or _perfect_ ,” she spits the word out like it was poison on her lips, “but no less real.”

Jughead settles down on the floor, leaning against a shelf, and pats the spot next to him. When she sits down, he begins, “Well, I’ve never read Toni Morrison before, so why don’t you tell me more about her work?”

 

 

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon talking, discussing their favorite authors and trading stories, and when they finally leave the bookstore, Betty buys a few copies of Agatha Christie, including _And Then There Were None_.

“So that I’ll always be reminded of how we met,” she tells him with a sly grin.

(Jughead tells the shopkeeper to reserve a book for him, but he doesn’t tell Betty that, of course.)

Afterward, they climb into his father’s old truck and drive to the big surprise he planned for them.

“You know, for someone who abhors surprises, you sure love inflicting them on others,” she quips from the passenger seat.

“It’s one you’ll like, I promise,” he reassures her.

He keeps driving, and watches the houses on both sides of the road go from big mansions to scattered trailer homes as they go deeper into the Southside. Finally, just as it’s beginning to get dark, they pull up in a large parking area with a gigantic inflatable movie screen.

“A drive-in theater?” Betty asks as she cranes her neck out the window to get a better look at the billboard that reads _Twilight Drive-in_. “Didn’t know those still existed.”

“Well, welcome to Riverdale,” he says. “The town that’s permanently stuck in the 60s.”

“We’re the only people here,” she points out, taking a look around the empty parking area.

“That’s because it’s not supposed to be open today,” he explains. “But I doubt the turn-out would have been much better on a business day, unfortunately. You could say the drive-in has seen better days.”

“It’s not open today,” she repeats. “But you somehow have access to it?”

“Let’s just say the guy who operates the projector booth owes me a favor,” he tells her. “He’s my “successor”, if you can even call it that. I used to work here back in high school. Most days it doubled as a nice escape from home.”

Betty nods thoughtfully. “Right. So… what are we watching tonight? Now that I know you’re into the dark and gritty stuff, should I brace myself?”

Jughead chuckles. “I think that’s enough surprises for one day. You can pick the movie. If I may have a suggestion, I’d say go for something classic and retro, to complement the overall atmosphere. After all, we’re at a drive-in. I was thinking _American Graffiti_ , but it’s up to you.”

“Hmm,” she contemplates for a moment before her lips quirk into a smile. “Maybe… _Rebel Without A Cause_?”

 

 

 

They settle comfortably into the back of the truck as the opening credits start rolling. Jughead wishes he could say he was paying attention to the movie, but instead, he finds himself staring at Betty instead, who seems to be engrossed in whatever that’s going on onscreen.

It’s strange, he muses, to think that they’ve only known each other for three days. To him, it feels as long as a lifetime, but still somehow not enough. There’s something about Betty that makes him instinctively feel safe, and when he’s with her, he can’t help but open up. In three days Betty has known enough about him what took Archie three years to uncover. It’s like he doesn’t act like his usual self when he’s with yet and yet at the same time he’s never felt more true to himself. It’s an odd, conflicting feeling, and all he knows is that he wants to spend more time with her, always.

Betty finally notices that he’s been staring at her. “What?” she asks.

He doesn’t know what to say. What could he possibly say, that would convey the way he feels, the way she makes him feel? No words would ever be enough.

“What?” she inquires again, a hint of a bemused smile on her lips.

And that’s when it happens. He closes the gap between them, cups her face with his hands and presses his lips to hers. He doesn’t know what to expect, as he’s normally not a risk-taker, but is surprised nonetheless when she returns the kiss, reaching up to touch his neck ever so slightly.

It’s a kiss unlike any other. One that makes him wonder if he’s ever kissed anyone like this before, or even if he’s ever kissed before, period. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters compared to the way he’s feeling right now, like everything that’s ever happened to him was ultimately building up to this one moment, a fleeting few seconds of absolute bliss, a blizzard of contradictory emotions, like discovering uncharted territory and coming home all at once.

The moment seems to stretch on forever, time slowing to a crawl and the sound of the movie fading out into nothingness, but the moment they pull apart, it suddenly feels all too short and leaves a yearning feeling in his stomach.

Quietly, he releases a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding.

When he opens his eyes, he finds she’s smiling, but it’s a bittersweet kind of smile.

For a long time, they don’t say anything. The movie keeps on playing in the background, but neither of them is paying any attention. Finally, Jughead breaks the silence.

“About what you said earlier,” he whispers. “I want to get to know you better, too. If that’s okay with you.”

Betty, strangely, looks like she’s about to cry, and he’s suddenly alarmed.

“Betty?” he asks, worried. “Is it something I said? I’m sorry, I didn’t- If you didn’t want to-“

“No, it’s not you,” she quickly waves him off and forces a smile. “Don’t worry about it. I guess I’m just a big crier. That’s one of the things you should know about me, I guess.”

“Well, that’s alright. We all have our vices. Mine is that I’m never not hungry,” he confesses. At this, she laughs a little.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she promises.

Wiping her tears, she rests her head on his shoulder as he pulls her close, and they watch the rest of the movie in comfortable silence, enjoying each other’s company.

 

 

 

As the end credits roll, Jughead notices Betty checking her watch.

“It’s almost midnight,” she informs him. “I need to be home soon.”

“I’ll drive you home,” he offers and helps her off the back of the truck.

They drive in silence for the rest of the way. As he’s about to round a corner onto Elm street, she signals for him to stop.

“Thank you, but this far will do,” she says with a smile. “I’ll walk the rest of the way. It’s late, I don’t want to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

Well, she’s not wrong, he thinks. His truck is quite old, and does make a ruckus wherever he goes.

“Are you sure? I can walk with you if you want. It’s pretty late.”

She beams at him, and to his surprise, leans over to give to him a quick peck on the cheek.

“One hundred percent,” she tells him and opens the door. “Thank you, for the movie, and for driving me home. I’ll call you later. Goodnight.”

After they’ve said their goodbyes, he leans back in his seat and watches her go until she rounds the corner and disappears down the street. Then he starts his engine again and heads back.

Much as he finds it silly, he can’t stop smiling the whole ride home.

 

 

 

That night, he’s taping cardboard boxes in every pattern imaginable, all the while cursing himself for taking so long to pack (it’s not that he has that many belongings to begin with, it’s just that he’s been quite… distracted as of late). He gives up half an hour in when he finds that he’s somehow ended up taping his fingers together far better than the boxes he should actually be taping, and casts a glance at his laptop sitting on the desk, the only object in the room left unpacked.

Slowly, he lifts the lid, and the screen flashes to life, showing the same page he had open last time he sat down in front of his laptop: an empty Word document. He stares at it, at the cursor blinking in a steady rhythm, just waiting for words to emerge from it.

He remembers Betty, remembers the way he feels when he’s with her, remembers all the banter and philosophizing they’ve done in the last couple days, remembers the epiphanies and realizations they’ve brought him, the fresh perspectives he’s never even considered before. He wants to memorize it all, every little detail, to hold on to them and never let go.

 _A story worth telling_ , he remembers her saying, and starts typing.

_tbc._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tricky chapter to write (hence the delayed update), but I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Things will start becoming clearer, little by little, as the plot progresses. I'm excited!
> 
> Next update should take a lot faster. I hope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onto chapter three: In which Jughead suspects Betty of being a psychic. 
> 
> Alternative title: Let's be real, something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.

**_Day 4._ **

_(June 18 th)_

He’s late.

He’s never been late before. He’s Jughead Jones – the very image of punctuality, always. But the truth remains that he ended up staying up late the previous night writing, fueled by a sudden surge of inspiration he hadn’t experienced in a long time.  A decision which is perhaps in retrospect a less than astute one, considering the current predicament he finds himself in.  

He’s chagrined to remember that a couple years ago he could have pulled an all-nighter writing and still be able to get up on time for work with little fuss. Alas, his writing hasn’t been all that prolific in quite a while, and as a result his biological clock must have grown unaccustomed to nightly writing sessions.

But, he thinks, if that’s what it takes to get his creative juices flowing again, this is a small price to pay.

As he sprints toward the Riverdale Register, he’s not sure if his spotless track record makes his tardiness better or worse. Best case scenario, Mr. Mantle will let him off the hook this once because he’s never been anything but a hardworking intern. Worst case scenario, this small misstep will undo all his effort and Mr. Mantle will continue to refuse to read anything Jughead sends him, which would be an unmitigated disaster, considering how hard he’s worked to get in the old man’s good graces just for a chance to get him to so much as _glance_ at one of his articles, just _one_.

It could go either way, but Jughead remembers Betty, remembers her optimism, and tries his best to channel a positive attitude and keeps his fingers crossed for the best outcome.

In his haste, he pushes open the door to the Register without looking – and all but bumps into none other than Richard Mantle himself.

It seems his morning has just taken a sudden downward turn.

Thrown off-balance by the collision, he momentarily flails about before finally managing to grab hold of the door frame to steady himself, at which point he finds Richard staring him up and down with one eyebrow raised.

“Jughead,” the older man says by way of greeting, voice betraying absolutely no emotion. “You’re late. This is unlike you, boy.”

“I apologize, Mr. Mantle,” he says simply, not offering any excuses. He knows Richard Mantle, knows the man despises apologies with excuses tacked on at the end, considers them to be insincere, even.

He regards Jughead for another moment, and when he doesn’t move, gives him a pointed look. “Well, what are you waiting for? Plan to waste more of my time than you already have? Get to work.”

Jughead makes a mad dash upstairs with barely a ‘yes, sir’, but Richard stops him just as he’s about to reach the landing.

“By the way, Jughead,” he calls out. “I read the article you sent me the other day, the one about the summer fair. Now, I don’t say this often, so don’t let it get to your head, but it was good. Better than the usual stuff you’re always begging me to read, anyway.”

“Oh,” he’s so stunned that he doesn’t know what to say. Truth be told, up until the moment Richard brought it up, he’s completely forgotten about it. “Thank you, sir.”

“In fact, I’ve already had it published in today’s issue,” Richard continues, grabs a copy of the Riverdale Register from a stack near him and tosses it to Jughead. “Granted, the summer fair was a few days ago, but I still think it deserved to be in the reflections on weekly events column.”

“I- thank you, sir,” Jughead stammers. “For the opportunity.”

“Opportunities are only given to those that prove they deserve them,” Richard tells him matter-of-factly. “That doesn’t include those who stand around slack-jawed instead of working. You’ve earned this one, but don’t get too drunk on your one minor success and slack off, because I’ll be watching you. Now go.”

Jughead scurries off without another word.

 

 

 

He re-reads the article, checks the date printed on the newspaper, and compares it to the current date on the calendar. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. It _is_ the same article that he wrote the day after the fair, and it _is_ published in today’s issue of the Riverdale Register.

And yet, there’s a nagging feeling in his stomach that something doesn’t quite add up.

 _Oh, that’s the article in the Riverdale Register!_ Betty had said, looking over his shoulder at the diner as he was typing up the article. As if…

As if she could predict the future.

The sheer idea is so ridiculous, so far-fetched that he shakes himself out of it almost immediately. Perhaps he misheard her, or misunderstood something. There has to be a rational explanation for it.

Maybe it’s just his overactive imagination seeing things that aren’t there, he thinks, and shrugs it off as he sets the newspaper aside and tries to redirect his focus back to the task at hand.

Five minutes later though, he finds his gaze wandering to the newspaper lying at the corner of his desk. As he stares at it uneasily, strange feeling blooms in his chest, one not unlike the feeling he gets when he knows there’s a missing puzzle piece that he’s not seeing.

 

 

 

He’s leaving the Register when his phone buzzes. The caller ID flashes Betty’s name. Jughead hesitates for a second before tapping the answer button.

“Hey, Jughead,” Betty’s cheerful voice greets him on the line. “Was just wondering how your day is going. I know we didn’t get to go anywhere today since you’re working, so I just wanted to say hi.”

“Betty, hi,” he greets her back, momentarily wonders if he should bring up the article, then decides it’s not a conversation to be had over the phone. “It’s been busy, and it’s about to get busier. I’m moving today.”

He remembers the countless cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, ones he’s spent so long meticulously labeling and arranging, and internally groans at the prospect of soon having to carry them around.

“You are? I can help out if you want. Tell me your address and I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Betty, really, you don’t have to,” he tries to dissuade her. “I appreciate it, but Archie’s there to help me, the two of us can manage. Besides, it’s mostly just hauling heavy boxes around. I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“Well, you’re not asking, I’m offering,” Betty tells him, and he can already tell it’s her _end of discussion_ voice. “And are you calling me weak, Jones? You think I can’t handle some boxes? May I remind you I did all the moving on my own when I moved here a week ago? My muscles are moving veterans, I’ll let you know.”

He smiles despite himself. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Cooper.”

“Then it’s settled,” she exclaims, voice once again cheerful. “Give me a time and place and I’ll be there.”

 

 

 

“I’m pretty sure your books take up two-thirds of your stuff, Jug,” Archie groans as he unloads yet another box with some kind of book genre label on it from the back of Jughead’s pickup truck. “How is it possible for a person to own this many books, I will never understand.”

 “Don’t be dramatic,” Jughead sighs, exasperated. “You worked construction for your Dad every summer when we were in high school, I think you can handle a few dozen books by yourself.”

“I never said I couldn’t handle them,” Archie quickly defends himself. “I’m just saying it’s ridiculous to keep this many books when you can just borrow what you need from the library and return them later when you’ve finished reading.”

Jughead shoots him a wry look. “Book collecting is a hobby I don’t expect you to understand, Arch. Besides, _some_ people actually like reading a book more than once.”

“What’s the point when you already know how it ends?”

Jughead is tempted to point out the irony of that question coming from the same person who insists the two of them sit down to watch the first two _Home Alone_ movies every Christmas, but the question strikes a chord in him, something he doesn’t really want to talk about, so he simply shrugs and lets it go.

They continue moving his things, Archie unloading the boxes from the truck and Jughead carrying them into his new home, a modest single-story house with two bedrooms. It’s tiny and barely furnished, but it’s a step up from his father’s dingy trailer in the Southside. For anyone from the outside looking in, it must look like a shoebox in comparison to the grand, ostentatious mansions of the Northside, but for Jughead, it signifies a new beginning, perhaps the start of a life better than the one he’s always known.

A few rounds later, Archie must be getting uncomfortable with the silence (the man never truly did grasp the concept of “companionable silence”, as far as Jughead can tell), so he makes another attempt at banter, the way he does when he feels like Jughead is shrinking back into his own world (“If I don’t talk to you then no one else will, and soon you’ll forget what human contact feels like,” he recalls Archie telling him once, in a rare moment that reminds Jughead that Archie can, in fact, get deep and philosophical when he wants to).

“By the way, now that you’ve mentioned it, it would have been nice to have an extra pair of hands, since your muscles obviously can’t strain themselves to lift anything heavier than a stack of paper. Like, I don’t know… Sweet Pea, who I maintain can carry both of us over his shoulder at the same time. With him around, this would have been over in ten minutes.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Jughead admits. “but Sweet Pea had to take a rain check. The tattoo parlor has been busy these past few weeks, or busier than usual, I guess. Besides, I’d have thought twice about having you and Sweet Pea anywhere within breathing proximity of each other, anyway, given the last time that happened you tried to give him a black eye.”

“That’s not true!” Archie jumps, suddenly defensive. “One, you shouldn’t go around believing everything you hear, especially as a budding journalist. And two, the way he is sometimes, someone should really punch him in the face more often.”

 _Yep_ , Jughead thinks. _He definitely_ _did it._ Mentally, he underlines “Keep Archie and Sweet Pea away from each other at all costs” in red three times on his to-do list.

“I bet he just made up some excuse not to come,” Archie continues unabated, and Jughead regrets ever entertaining the Sweet Pea subject. “Bet he’s allergic to books. See, Jug? You have so many it freaks people out.”

“Archie, that doesn’t even make any-”

“With all these books, no wonder you never leave the house,” ignoring Jughead’s withering glare, Archie continues his dramatic spiel before he suddenly falls silent, as if remembering something. When he speaks again, Jughead decidedly does not like the teasing tone in his voice. “But that’s not the case anymore, is it? You’ve been staying out awfully lot, showing your new friend around town.”

“You’re the one who keeps nagging me to go out and socialize more,” Jughead argues. “Now that I’m doing exactly that, you won’t let me hear the end of it. You’re really sending some mixed signals there, Arch.”

“I was teasing,” Archie says with a look that can only best be described as equal parts exasperated and defeated. “Geez, Jug. You’re no fun. For a writer, your sense of humor is nonexistent. Does Betty know?”

“Do I know what?”

Jughead nearly drops the box on his toes.

When he whirs around, Betty is standing there, regarding the both of them with a curious look. Before he can recover enough to say anything, Archie beats him to it.

“That he’s a wet blanket,” he deadpans and gives her a small wave. “Hi there. You must be Jughead’s new friend that I keep hearing so much about. Jug?” He lightly punches Jughead’s shoulder to shake him out of his reverie.

“Right. Betty, this is Archie, my best friend. Archie, Betty Cooper.”

“Hi,” Betty extends a hand toward Archie and he takes it. “It’s so nice to finally meet one of Jughead’s friends.”

“I’m his only friend, believe me,” Archie quips. “No one else could put up with this brooding mess past introductions and yet I’ve stuck around for sixteen years. I deserve an award for that, really.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Jughead laughs nervously, attempting to steer Betty away from Archie and the many embarrassing childhood stories he’s no doubt about to spring upon her. “He’s just messing with you.”

Betty, for her part, seems lost in thought. She regards both him and Archie for a long moment before she speaks again.

“I really hope you two will keep being friends for many years to come,” she meets Archie’s gaze intently. “Won’t you, Archie? Jughead needs someone like you to have his back.”

Jughead is grateful that even though Archie is clearly thrown off by the strange conversation opener, he does his best not to show it, and recovers quickly enough to steer the conversation into a more light-hearted direction.

“Oh, don’t worry, he won’t be able to get rid of me so easily. Someone’s gotta balance him out,” he says and leans over to grab Jughead in a playful chokehold, who regains his senses in time to break away and avoid a noogie.

When Jughead finally manages to pull himself together after Archie’s surprise-attack (his way of showing affection in the company of the likes of Reggie and Moose, no doubt, which is also unfortunately often performed on him, to his chagrin), he finds that Betty has shifted from watching the two of them to staring at his new house.

Her eyes seem to scan every surface of the façade, as if she’s either trying to memorize the way it looks, or trying to remember where she’s seen it before, Jughead isn’t sure which, or neither.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he tells her, and she turns her attention back to him. “Don’t look so impressed. You’re scaring me.”

Betty pouts at him in mock annoyance, then skips over to where Archie is struggling in the back of the truck, snatches a couple boxes from him and bounces past Jughead on her way to the front door.

She stops on the top step of the front porch and casts a look back at him. “Well? Have you forgotten what we do every day? You have a place to show me.”

Smiling, he grabs a foldable coffee table and a set of keys and jogs up to her.

 

 

 

Very quickly into the moving process, both Betty and Jughead have discovered that neither of them is particularly gifted when it comes to heavy-lifting, leaving Archie to lug around all the heavy furniture, which include: one couch, one small dining table for two, one work desk, a TV, a foldable bed, and to Archie’s great horror and dismay, a fridge.

It’s why they now find themselves cleaning the house and unpacking smaller things on their own, Archie having run for the hills the moment he set the last piece of furniture down on solid ground, something neither of them can blame him for.

The silence stretches on, with only the occasional rustling noise as Jughead tears open another box and Betty sweeps the dust in a corner filling the space between them. On the upside, there’s no Archie around to shoot them weird, teasing looks, and Jughead does enjoy being in Betty’s company when they’re the only two people around. On the downside, he wonders if he should perhaps say something about the previous night. After all, they did go to a drive-in theater, were the only ones there too, and shared a kiss. And then she told him she wanted to get to know him better, and kissed him goodnight.

Was it a date? Are they seeing each other now? Jughead isn’t even sure he knows how people start dating each other, or how relationships work, for that matter. Is it some kind of unspoken agreement that two people come to after a kiss, a date or some similar milestone, or do they verbally declare, _‘we’re dating now’_ to each other while nodding and shaking hands? It’s not like Jughead has any experience in the matter that would provide him with a precedent for this sort of situation. Suddenly, he misses Archie and his counsel, misguided as they often are.

“Last night was fun,” he finally manages.

“It was,” she looks at him from across the room, beaming. “Let’s do that again sometime, yeah? Though preferably at an actual cinema this time. Not that I didn’t love the drive-in, don’t get me wrong, but two teenagers alone in an abandoned place is just asking for trouble. I thought that as a horror fan, you’d know better, Juggie.”

He stays silent then, so she turns around and regards him with a bemused look.

“What’s wrong? If you don’t like nicknames…”

“No, it’s not that,” he says quickly. “It’s just… I just want you to know I appreciate it that you took the time to help me with this. I know it’s not particularly exciting, and you’d probably rather be sightseeing, or-”

Betty laughs and holds up a hand. “Okay, let me stop you right there. One, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing right now, so you can stop worrying about that. Two, you seemed like you could use some help, and I have a free afternoon. It’s no big deal. People help each other, you know. It’s what they do.”

Jughead doesn’t know how to respond. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s always relied on himself and figure things out on his own if he could help it. Now that he really thinks about it, he rarely accepts help from other people, but then again, other people rarely offered him help, anyway.

He never wanted to admit it to himself, because doing so would be to acknowledge that it’s true, and the truth sounds pathetic, even to him: he’s not used to people being nice to him without wanting anything in return.

As if she can sense his thoughts, Betty leaves the broom leaning against a wall and comes to sit next to him, close enough that he can feel he has her undivided attention, but far enough to give him space.

“You don’t have to try so hard to impress me all the time, you know,” she tells him gently. “I like spending time with you, no matter what we end up doing. I just don’t want you to feel like you constantly need to come up with something exciting or clever to keep my attention.”

He opens his mouth, wants to argue, wants to deny it, but instead he simply nods. There’s no point lying to Betty, she already has him all figured out like an open book.

She gets up again, but stops when he calls her. “Betty?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t usually do nicknames, but you can call me Juggie if you want to.”

A smile spreads across her face. “Okay. Juggie it is then.”

 

 

 

Approximately two hours and a half later, they’re standing in the living room, so freshly cleaned and dusted that to Jughead it almost sparkles from how pristine it is.

Betty assesses the room with one raised eyebrow. “Looks clean, but a little…”

“… Empty?” Jughead offers. After all, he doesn’t own a lot of furniture.

“I was going to say dull, but that too.” she says. “Needs a splash of color. Some decorations.”

He shrugs. “I’m not much of an interior decorating guy.”

“Luckily, you have me,” she declares, then spins around so suddenly her ponytail almost hits him in the cheek. She picks up the shopping bag she’s brought with her and which she’s left near the front door, and pulls out something resembling a bundle wrapped in newspapers.

“Just a little something to brighten up the room,” she says, unwrapping the flowers.

“Blue hydrangeas,” he points out. “again.”

“They remind me of when we first met,” she explains. “The beginning of us. I thought it’d be fitting for a housewarming gift – this is a new house, the start of something new in your life.”

“They’re beautiful,” he tells her. “but I’m not sure I have anywhere to put them. Maybe in that bucket-”

“Again, luckily for you, I brought this,” Betty says, brandishing a glass vase she plucked out of the shopping bag. “I know you don’t have one, so I came prepared.”

He watches as she fills the vase with water and places the flowers in. Carefully, she lowers the vase onto the coffee table, and takes a step back to admire her handiwork.

“There,” she breathes out. “Much better.”

The room does look better, he has to admit. It’s amazing how much difference a simple blue bouquet of flowers makes. It brightens up the whole room, makes it look so much livelier. Much like Betty. Before he met her, his life was… fine. Not miserable, but certainly not exciting, either. Then one day, out of the blue, she swoops in, and adds a little bit of color into it, small as it is. A tiny patch of vibrant blue in a room of monochromatic colors that made all the difference.

“Well, I better get going,” Betty says, breaking through his train of thought. She glances quickly at her watch. “There’s still quite a bit of work to be done, so I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Betty, you don’t have to…” Jughead starts, but she holds up her index finger to her lips.

“Remember what we talked about, Juggie,” she reminds him. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, and you don’t have to drive me home. I’ve been cooped up indoors all day, I’d like to walk. I need to stretch my legs.”

He thanks her one last time as she leaves before shutting the front door after her. Turning around, he takes another look at the living room, then reaches into one of his bags and pulls out his laptop.

Settling down on the couch, his gaze automatically falls onto the hydrangeas, and before long, he starts to type.

 

 

 

**_Day 5._ **

_(June 19 th) _

He’s still sleeping when Betty rings his doorbell.

“Good morning, Juggie!” she greets him, and a tiny part of him is befuddled that someone can be so cheerful at nine in the morning, but mostly, he’s happy she’s the first face he sees on his first official day in his new home.

“What’s all this?” he asks, pointing to the couple plastic bags she carries with her as she enters.

She responds with a question of her own. “I’m guessing you haven’t touched the kitchen since yesterday?”

“Well, no, I didn’t get a chance to,” he explains as he follows her into the kitchen. “I was busy unpacking, so ordered takeout.”

“This will not do,” Betty says. “After moving in, you have to christen the kitchen as soon as possible, or it’s bad luck.”

He laughs. “Says who?”

“Says me. So, what do you think about cookies?”

 

 

 

Betty bakes amazing cookies.

It’s a fact he learns munching on the first batch as he leans against a counter and watches her pop the second batch into the oven.

“These are delicious,” he tells her as he chews on a chocolate chip cookie, taking care not to spray crumbs everywhere. “You should open a cookie shop. Riverdale needs one, the current bakery sell absolutely rubbish cookies.”

“You don’t have to try so hard to shower me with compliments, I’m already baking you cookies,” she teases, plucking a cookie from the tray and taking a bite. She scans the remaining ingredients on the counter. “Looks like we still have enough for another batch, but I’ve run out of sugar.”

“Oh, it’s in the-” Jughead starts pointing her to the cupboard where he keeps his spices, but before he gets a chance to finish, Betty has located it and opened it with a small victorious ‘aha!’ as she pulls out the sugar jar.

 Jughead falls silent as Betty chatters on about how many more of each flavor she can still make, but the gears inside his head are turning too wildly for him to focus on the specifics.

Betty knows where he keeps the sugar. Of course, she did help him unpack just the day before, so it’s not far-fetched to believe that she remembered where he keeps certain things.

Except this is the same cupboard that he stocked last night, long after Betty left.

When he thinks long and hard about it, this isn’t the first time he’s noticed something peculiar about Betty.

“Jug? Earth to Jughead,” her voice shakes him out of his reverie and yanks him back to reality. Betty is looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, I was thinking about something. What were you saying?”

Instead of answering him, she regards him for a long moment. “Something’s on your mind.”

Damn, she knows him too well.

“It’s nothing,” he tries to brush it off, but Betty isn’t having any of it.

“Don’t say ‘nothing’, whatever it is, it’s clearly _something_ ,” she insists.

“Well… it’s silly, and this is going to sound completely crazy…”

“Try living with my mother, _that’s_ crazy,” she half-laughs. “Try me.”

“Alright, you asked for it. Don’t laugh, okay?”

When she promises not to, he gathers all his courage and finally blurts out. “Are you psychic?”

Betty nearly chokes on her cookie.

“Am I what now?”

He feels his face burn up with embarrassment for suggesting such a ludicrous thing, but Jughead is nothing if not stubborn, so he pushes forth. “The first time we met at Pop’s, you said the article I was writing was going to be published in the Riverdale Register, and it was. It was published in yesterday’s issue.”

“Did I say that?” Betty wonders, looking contemplative. “I don’t recall. I do remember that it was a great article though, from the little snippets I managed to catch over your shoulder, hope you didn’t mind. It’s not really a surprise it ended up getting published.”

“The next time we were at Pop’s, you ordered my favorite,” he continues. “I never told you what my favorite was.”

“Oh come on, it was a lucky guess, everyone likes cheeseburgers!” she counters.

“What about the coffee? Coffee preferences are more specific.”

“I told Pop the order was for you,” she explains. “He knows how you take your coffee, doesn’t he?”

He supposes that’s a good point, but he’s not finished yet.

“You knew I don’t own a vase.”

Betty laughs. “Not to stereotype anyone, but from my experience, men – especially men who live alone – rarely do.”

“But the weirdest thing is that you knew exactly where I keep my sugar,” he finishes with what he believes to be his most compelling argument, and waits with bated breath for her response.

She looks thoughtful for a moment. “So you think I’m psychic… because I correctly deduced that the sugar would be in the cupboard… where people normally keep sugar?”

It does sound absurd when she puts it that way. He’s about to argue that she made a beeline for the correct cupboard out of the four cupboards in the kitchen on first try, but decides not to.

“… Sorry.” is all he says instead. “If I freaked you out. Guess I’ve been reading too much sci-fi these days.”

Betty laughs again. “I’ll say.”

He perks up. “Wait, you’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad? I get mistaken for being psychic through sheer power of lucky guessing alone, that means I must be pretty amazing, if I do say so myself.”

He smiles. “You are. You really are.”

He swears he can see her blush, if only just a little.

 

 

 

They spend the rest of the day curled up on his couch, watching TV and eating cookies. At one point she scoots closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder, and he feels a warm, tingling feeling in his stomach.

“You know,” he begins as the commercial break starts. “I’ve been writing again.”

Betty pulls back slightly so that she can look at him. “Really? That’s great, Juggie! That’s a big deal, right? You told me you haven’t written anything of substance in a while. What is it about?”

He wanted to say _my life_ , or _what’s happening to me this summer_ , but what comes out is: “You. Or rather, us.”

“You said you didn’t like ordinary, everyday life stories,” she points out.

“Someone once told me that if it’s a life worth living, it’s a story worth telling.”

She smiles. “A wise person, I’m sure.”

He pulls her closer to him. “She is. Very much so. And bright and funny, and cheerful. It’s impossible not to be happy around her. Trust me, I know from experience.”

“That’s because she has a moody writer to keep her grounded, keep her head from floating too far up cloud nine.”

Impulsively, he leans down and kisses her temple. For a moment he wants to panic out of sheer habit, but then he remembers her words, remembers the way she’s shown that she accepts, embraces him for who he is, and his muscles relax. She slings an arm over his chest and buries her face into his neck and exhales, content. The quiet sound of the TV drones on, sounding muffled from where they are in their own little bubble. He’s never felt so calm and peaceful.

In that moment, everything is perfect.

_tbc._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clear up a vague reference in the first chapter which becomes clearer this chapter: Since the Coopers never lived in Riverdale, the Register is run by Richard Mantle, Reggie's father, who runs it in the comics. 
> 
> This chapter was so much fun to write. A huge thank you to all who keep sticking with this little story. Hope you enjoy! See you again soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a year since the last update. I have no excuse for this.

**_Day 7._ **

_(June 21 st)_

Within a week, they have gone to every possible date spot Riverdale has to offer that can be classified as ‘mildly interesting’, and Jughead isn’t sure if they owe that to their steady, one-date-a-day streak, or if it’s simply a testament to how small and unremarkable this town is. Either way, they’ve decided to branch out.

It’s no secret that Jughead isn’t the biggest fan of change, no matter how small. He takes comfort in habits and routines, in always knowing the outcome of something. But his tentative and blossoming relationship with Betty has been anything but conventional, or predictable, and he thinks it’s rubbed off on him. Made him more of a risk-taker. Made him more unafraid to take life as it comes.

He admits a part of it started just to please Betty, to make her happy. He would wrack his brain trying to come up with new things for them to do, new places for them to see, new experiences for them to try out, initially out of fear that she would grow bored with him and leave, like every other person in his life has done. But now, now he feels like it’s slowly but surely becoming a part of who he is. That simply being with Betty emboldens him in a way he would have never imagined possible, and the thrill of it excites him to no end.

Which is why Jughead figures that his bolder new self ought to take Betty to one of Archie’s Thursday night gigs at the oddly 1920s-themed bar right on the edge of town, just before the welcome sign. Still technically a part of Riverdale, but far enough and unconventional enough to still count as a new experience.

As he pulls the truck into one of the parking spots in front of the bright neon-colored bar, he glances at Betty, and not for the first time, finds himself smiling.

He can’t remember the last time he’s been this happy.

She shoots him a smile right back and playfully nudges him as he turns off the engine. For a moment, they sit there, savoring each other’s presence, filled with a strange sort of excitement at yet another new adventure.

“Ready for another story worth telling?” he asks her, and she squeezes his hand briefly in response before they get off and make their way toward the bar.

It’s bustling inside, as he expected. People milling about, mingling and laughing, their sequined dresses and gaudy jewelry glistening in the dim light. Soft jazz music is playing as a musician looks to be finishing up his set. Archie should be up any minute now, he thinks as they locate themselves a table.

They’ve just manage to sit down when a beautiful young woman in a purple dress with wavy dark hair just past her shoulders takes the stage as the final notes of the song reverberate through the room. She flashes a charming smile. _Veronica Lodge_ , Jughead’s mind supplies helpfully. Lord knows he’s listened to Archie talk about her more times than he can count. Knowing Archie, he’s always rolled his eyes at his tales, told with starry-eyed wonder and admiration. Archie collects crushes the same way Jughead collects books, and forgets them just as quickly. However, upon closer re-examination of existing information with the benefit of hindsight, Jughead can’t help but wonder if there is something more there, this time.

“Jug, here comes Archie.”

Betty’s hand on his arm interrupts his train of thought. On stage, Veronica wraps up her speech and announces the next performer. Archie steps on stage, and Jughead raises an eyebrow as he catches Veronica’s hand touch Archie’s forearm slightly, lingering for just a second too long. An amused smile plays at his lips, and he’s doubly amused when he turns to Betty, who also seems to have caught onto that tiny display of affection.

“I’m starting to think Archie didn’t simply invite us here to make us listen to him sing country music in a jazz bar,” Jughead remarks, and Betty’s smile widens.

“I’m starting to wonder why you didn’t realize there might be a reason why Archie is allowed to play country music in a jazz bar in the first place,” she laughs, then quickly adds. “Besides his natural talent, of course.”

“Natural talent?” Jughead echoes in mock-doubt. “Debatable.”

Betty chuckles and lightly punches his arm. Jughead raises his arm defensively. “I’m just saying, as his best mate and most frequent and long-suffering audience.”

Betty laughs again, and not for the first time, Jughead marvels at how easy it is for him to joke around her and not have to worry about any potential misunderstandings, awkward silences, or making a fool of himself. Betty doesn’t simply change him for the better by drawing him out of his shell, she allows him to be comfortably himself around her and seems to genuinely enjoy herself in his company, as well.

Not for the first time, Jughead wonders how on Earth he ever got to be so lucky.

A waiter comes and takes their order, a couple mocktails, and they settle down to listen to the sound of Archie singing, trying hard to ignore how the genre does not fit in with the atmosphere of the bar, at all.

Betty is playing with the flower in the tiny vase set on the table in front of them, her fingers caressing every blue petal of the hydrangea, face deep in thought.

“Betty?” Jughead starts, voice tentative. “Are you not enjoying yourself? I’m sorry, I know you don’t like crowds and loud places. If you don’t want to stay we can just say hi to Arch after this song and go – ”

“No,” Betty interrupts him, not unkind. She flashes him a reassuring smile. “I’m okay, really. Just thinking.”

He accepts her answer without prodding. Even though he’s only known her for a week, he knows Betty sometimes gets contemplative, and she has reassured him that it’s just part of who she is. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, and he’s managed to somewhat unlearn his insecurities around her. It’s just that he wants to make her happy so, so badly that at times the feeling overshadows everything else. He’s been working on that, too. He wouldn’t want her to put him on a pedestal and bend herself backwards for him, either.

He’s not perfect, and they’re not perfect, but they’re trying. Sometimes, that is good enough.

 

 

Archie joins them at their table after his set, guitar in hand and grinning from ear to ear. He gives Betty a brief hug and Jughead a rather enthusiastic smack on the shoulder that makes him grimace a little. Jughead notices that he looks a bit dazed, though whether that’s from the adrenaline rush from performing in front of a large crowd, or something else entirely, he’s not sure.

“So glad you guys could make it,” Archie says, a boyish smile on his face. He turns to Betty. “You know, Betty, in all the years I’ve known Jug here, I’ve never been able to convince him to come. Until you.”

“Oh?” Betty’s eyebrows shoot up in an exaggerated attempt at surprise. “I must be good influence on him.”

“Damn straight. If you guys had met sooner then maybe I wouldn’t have had to brave so many nights wondering if there were rotten eggs and tomatoes and hecklers awaiting me at the end of the song,” he side-eyes Jughead. “Since a certain best pal of mine refused to show up for moral support no matter how much I begged and bribed.”

Betty only laughs good-naturedly, but Jughead can feel his face flush pink.

(A part of him appreciates it, though. With his family either out of state or in prison, Jughead doesn’t think he’ll get the privilege of introducing Betty to his family and have his mother fawn on her or Jellybean blab about all his faults, anytime in the near future. Somehow these brief get-togethers with Archie seem like a good enough substitute. It makes him feel… normal.)

“If you’re done smearing my good name,” Jughead interrupts, motioning toward the bar behind Archie. “I believe there’s someone who desires your presence more than we do, Arch.”

They all follow his line of vision, and sure enough, Veronica is half leaning over the counter with a colorful glass in one hand, chatting animatedly with the bartender and flashing polite smiles at anyone who approaches her to say hello. She looks up, catches Archie watching her, and gives a shy smile, her fingers curling around her string of pearls nervously. Archie waves at her, then turns back to Betty and Jughead.

Jughead tries to ignore the way Veronica’s smile falls ever so slightly and a look of disappointment crosses her dark features before her attention is snagged by a lady in a dark green dress.

Betty seems to notice, as well. “Why don’t you come say hi to her, Archie?”

Archie has the audacity to blush. “I-I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“She’s… she’s great,” he stammers, and Jughead has to refrain from rolling his eyes at the unremarkable adjective his best friend used to describe his object of affection. It triggers flashbacks of little Archie trying to convince him to write him poetry for his latest crush in elementary school, since his own had been so lacking in colorful vocabulary (and correct spelling).

“I like her,” Archie finishes off, simply.

“Then what’s the problem?” Betty prods further.

“She’s not gonna like someone like me,” Archie admits, shoulders slumped in defeat, and Jughead suddenly feels bad for always being so hard on him. Archie may not be winning any Pushcarts anytime soon, but the boy is earnest, sincere, and stuck by Jughead when no one else did. He doesn’t think Archie has a mean bone in his body.

Maybe it’s Jughead’s turn to pull his weight in this relationship for once, and that chance is tonight.

“How do you know that if you won’t talk to her?” He asks Archie. Darn it, he’s invested now.

“Did you guys hear her mother is running for mayor? Her family owns a fortune. She surrounds herself with people whose indoor slippers cost more than my entire life. What could I possibly give her that she doesn’t have already?” He asks, lifting his beat-up guitar slightly to make a point.

Betty looks sympathetic. “It’s not about that, Archie.”

“Besides, if she surrounds herself with trust fund kids and still wants to hang with you, then she must see something in you, Archibald.” Jughead adds, poking Archie’s chest lightly for emphasis.

For a moment, Archie looks hesitant as he turns and sneaks a glance at Veronica, still busy in conversation with the lady in the green dress, completely oblivious. He lets out a sigh.

“Maybe, but not tonight,” he finally relents, a compromise he must have hoped would be good enough. It’s not.

“No, you’re not chickening out of it now, Archie,” Betty gets out of her seat and starts gently but firmly pulling on his arm. Archie looks part exasperated and part embarrassed, but Jughead notices he can’t help but smile sheepishly.

Finally, he relents, and lets Betty push him in the general direction of Veronica. They watch him approach her just as her conversation with the other lady is wrapping up, and a smile spreads across Veronica’s face, the happiest they’ve seen her since they entered the bar.

Jughead can’t help but look at Betty as she watches the couple, something of a hesitant but flirtatious dance unfolding between them. She looks happy and almost wistful. Jughead mentally scribbles it down for later.

“Hope I wasn’t pushing him too hard,” Betty admits, though she doesn’t stop smiling.

“Nah,” Jughead reassures her, reaching to put his hand on the small of her back and pulling her closer to him. “He needs the tough love. I think you did him a favor. Besides, now I’ve got my payback for him snatching my phone and calling you that one time.”

She leans further into him until her head is almost resting on his shoulder, and looks up at him with her wide, green eyes. “But if he hadn’t done that, who knows how long it would have taken you to work up the courage to call me.”

“Okay, point.” He concedes. “He did me a favor, too. Now we’re even.”

“And look where it got us,” Betty says. “Sometimes, good things do come out of meddling. Who knew?”

She looks back at Archie and Veronica, now seemingly deep in conversation. Veronica is laughing at something Archie said, and he’s rubbing the back of his neck and looking like he might be blushing. Jughead has never seen his best friend act like that around a girl before.

“Maybe something good will come out of this too, this time,” he muses. Betty makes a humming noise in agreement. “We made something good happen together.”

“We should leave them to it,” Betty says as she glances at her watch. “Do you want to get out of here? I know it’s not exactly your scene.”

 

 

They drive for a few minutes before Jughead breaks the comfortable silence.

“You really wanted him to go after Veronica tonight,” he says, and internally grimaces a little. He meant for it to come off like a simple observation, not an accusation. “He could’ve done it tomorrow, or the day after that, or the next time he plays at the bar. Did you think he would really chicken out if he waited any longer?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t know Archie enough to make a correct judgment. But if he’s certain of the way he feels about her, what’s the point of waiting? What does delaying the inevitable accomplish anything?”

“Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today, huh,” Jughead says, aiming for levity. It doesn’t quite land.

When Betty speaks again, she sounds almost wistful that it nearly throws him off. “You never know what tomorrow may bring. Maybe the world will have completely changed by the time we wake up in the morning. It’s better to seize the moment, no?”

They pull to a stop at the intersection, Betty’s street just looming on their right. Jughead has long learned that she prefers to walk the rest of the way alone.

He holds out his hand, and she takes it without hesitation, exhaling slowly. He can feel her whole body relax at his touch, and feels a swell of happiness that for once, he can provide with some degree of comfort.

It’s the first time they’ve held hands, he realizes. At least, in this way.

“Thank you,” she speaks, voice soft. She takes a deep breath, as if to steel herself. He can feel her losing herself in the moment, and so he patiently waits it out, allows her that one minute of peace.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Jughead says after a while, gently stroking her hand with his free hand. “I know we haven’t known each other for a long time, and I’m not trying to be presumptuous, or pressure you or anything – ”

“Jug,” she cuts him off, and he is thankful for it, as he was about 98% sure he was going to ramble right then and there. “I know. Thank you. And I’m okay, really. I just… overthink things a lot.”

He doesn’t think he’s entirely convinced, but lets it go anyway. If Betty wants to come to him with whatever is weighing on her mind, she’ll do so on her own terms. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She echoes.

They exchange a quick goodnight kiss before Betty gets off the truck. Not for the first time, Jughead contemplates also getting off and following her, if only to just make sure she gets home safe, and to have a look at the place where she lives. Each time, the temptation only lasts for a second before he chastises himself and thinks better of it. A part of him feels hurt that there seems to be some part of her she’s not only refusing to share with him but also going out of her way to keep from him, but he reminds himself not to rush things. They’ve only known each other for a few days, after all, and she deserves the right to sit on whatever secret she feels compelled to keep. She doesn’t owe him anything, things between them haven’t even gotten that serious yet.

And yet, something within him screams out for _more_.

He checks his watch. It’s almost midnight.

 

 

**Day 10.**

_(June 24 th)_

Jughead gets the morning off, and they spend it wandering around the farmer’s market, having planned for a quiet day in cooking, watching TV and generally just lounging around. Jughead has always found such ‘lazy days’ extremely therapeutic, and luckily for him Betty seemed to not only share his opinion, but was also the one to suggest it in the first place.

Which is why right now, he finds himself trailing after Betty from stall to stall, observing as she picks out some tomatoes, hands in his pockets and occasionally chiming in with an opinion when prompted. Otherwise, he just follows her around, shuffling his feet awkwardly as she lingers at a stall, sampling fruit and examining vegetables.

He’s more than content just watching her examine the produce with so much focus it’s almost hilariously adorable, the way she never forgets to flash a friendly smile at the sellers, the way she seems to give her all in everything she does, no matter how small. Jughead thinks about the way his brain sometimes feels like it’s on autopilot, the way his soul inhabits his physical body without actually being _there_ sometimes, the way he goes about his life constantly waiting for _something_ to happen. The way his life has always felt like a transitionary period. To what, he’s not sure himself.

‘Live in the moment,’ Betty has told him, and it’s a philosophy he’s tried to adopt ever since, but watching her live by those words with her very being will never stop filling him with amazement. Each time, he’s just as struck as the first.

Betty turns to him, a smile playing on her lips as she catches him staring. “What?” she asks, in that teasing, playful way that makes his heart beat faster and warmth spread in his stomach.

“Shall we go?” He asks, holding out his hand for her as she finishes paying at the last stall and grabs a handful of blue flowers wrapped in newspaper. She gazes at his outstretched hand for perhaps a moment longer than is absolutely necessary, then takes it.

“I like it when we do that,” she says, lightly swinging their clasped hands back and forth. She sounds casual, almost cheerful even, but doesn’t meet his eyes.

They start down the street toward his house. It’s unusually quiet, but if he had to pick between enduring the cacophony of his neighbors mowing the lawn, blasting hard rock on loudspeakers, or using the blender for two hours straight, he’d take quiet any day of the week.

Betty tries to surreptitiously rub at her eyes. “Something must’ve gotten in my eye,” she explains when she notices him staring, pointing to a passing truck kicking up a bit of dust in its wake.

His only response is to squeeze her hand, at which he feels her muscles relax slightly.

They cook together, or rather, she cooks while he fumbles around trying to make himself useful. Jughead has developed quite a liking to Betty’s cooking. It’s like she knows exactly what makes his stomach sing with delight.

Just another item on the endless list of reasons why he loves Betty Cooper.

(And God, he really thinks he’s starting to.)

After lunch, she helps him unpack the last of his belongings, a dusty cardboard box helpfully labeled ‘old stuff’ that by the looks of it, had been around since before he moved houses and hasn’t been touched in a while.

Inside they find hidden treasures even Jughead has forgotten he still keeps. A slightly tattered stuffed toy. “I named him Hot Dog,” he explains and feigns offense when she stifles a laugh. “Always wanted a dog but we could never afford to have one. This was the next best thing.”

“And yet after all that you’ve left him here all alone and forgotten,” Betty says as she holds the stuffed dog in her hands, examining its dirty white fur. “We must give him a bath and put him somewhere he’ll always be seen.”

(They did exactly that. Afterwards, Hot Dog sits in his new spot, on Jughead’s writing desk, leaning against a shelf. Never forgotten again.)

Next, they find a stack of his old notebooks, back when he’s just started writing and thought Kerouac was the best thing since sliced bread. He jokingly suggests burning them, completely not expecting Betty to protest so vehemently at the mere idea.

“But they’re really bad,” Jughead argues. “I can’t even think about them without cringing most days, to be honest. If you read them, you’d probably feel the same way. Which you are not, by the way,” he adds, holding the notebook out of her grasp when she tries to reach for it, and she pouts.

“Why not?”

“I’m not ready to share the dark and edgy musings of teenage me yet,” he quips. “Trust me, the world would be better off not knowing about them.”

“Gotta retain an air of mystery,” she teases him.

“Yeah, well, I like looking toward the future rather than dwell on the past,” he shrugs.

“The past and the future can be more interconnected than you might think,” Betty points out.

“Is this one of your enigmatic words of wisdom, Miss Cooper?”

“Oh, _I’m_ an enigma now?”

He kisses her lightly, feeling warmth bloom in his stomach as he feels her smile into the kiss. “Always. But that’s what I like about you.”

 

 

When they get to the bottom of the box, Jughead’s heart almost stops in his throat when Betty unearths a simple looking wooden box and blows the thin film of dust off its surface.

“What’s this?” she asks, curious.

Jughead can’t believe he’s actually forgotten about it. He reaches over and takes the box from her hands, caressing the wooden surface with reverence, as if a part of him worries it might break. A storm of emotions well up inside him.

“This is – ” he trails off. “God, it’s been so long.”

“Looks like there’s a story to it,” Betty says. It’s not an attempt to prod him for information, but he tells her anyway. After all, ten years is a long time to hold onto a secret.

“When I was ten years old,” he begins. “I think that’s when I knew I wanted to be a writer someday. And it was hard, at first. All the boys my age were trying out soccer or basketball, or joining the swimming team. I was just the freak who wouldn’t remove his nose from his books. I could tell my father was disappointed, he had been the star football player in high school. He wanted me to start following in his footsteps, start playing sports, so that by the time I was his age, I could be just like him. I could finally realize the dream he never got to.”

“And you tried to?” Betty asks, gentle. She grasps his hand, encouraging him to continue.

“I did,” Jughead admits. “It was terrible. I couldn’t keep up with the boys, couldn’t kick a ball straight, couldn’t swim more than five meters without my lungs burning up. For weeks, I was nothing but a laughingstock for the other kids. Even the coaches had begun to lose their patience with me. I was a hopeless case.”

“One day, I was walking to my weekly swimming lessons when I decided I’d had enough. But I was too scared to actually go home and tell my father that sports wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life. So I sat down at the bus station and waited for the hours to pass so I could go home and pretend I’d been at swimming class all along.”

Betty cracks a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And the box?”

“That’s where it comes in,” he says. “I was just sitting there, lost in my thoughts for god knows how long, until this woman came and sat down next to me. She was holding this box.”

He smiles at the memory. “To be honest, I don’t even know who she was, nor do I remember what she looked like, or what we talked about. But she was the first person to actually care about what I wanted without making me feel like I should be doing something else instead. She encouraged me to keep writing, to do what I wanted. It was a small push, but I suppose it was exactly what a lost kid needed in that moment to keep going.”

“And she gave you this box?”

Jughead blinks, narrowing his eyes at the box. “She did. She told me not to open it ‘until the time comes.’”

“That’s vague,” Betty observes.

“It is, isn’t it,” Jughead concedes. “She said I’d know when the time comes.”

“And you managed to resist opening it all these years? I don’t believe it.” she says jokingly.

“I suppose that’s why I put it here, underneath all this old stuff,” he says. “So I wouldn’t be tempted to open it. And then I guess I just... forgot about it.”

“Well?” she prods. “Do you suppose that time is now?”

His fingers linger for just a moment over the lid, but he decides against it and puts the box back where it belongs. “Nah, not today.”

Betty gazes at the box for a long while, her face unreadable. Finally, she says. “Okay. You know what’s best.”

Afterwards, they leave the box and return to the couch, where they read in silence for the rest of the day and well into the night, enjoying each other’s company. But Jughead’s mind never leaves the box. He feels its presence all the way in the labeled cardboard box across the room. A world of memories come rushing back, some things he thought forgotten resurfacing, clear as if they happened yesterday.

_When the time comes._

The words ring in his head, exciting and ominous at the same time.

The hours inch closer to midnight.

_tbc._

 


End file.
